Why We Fight
by T3t
Summary: Albus Dumbledore knows many things, but he is yet ignorant of others.  These are his pivots, where Albus Dumbledore learns why to fight.
1. The Greater Good

**Disclaimer: **I own neither Harry Potter nor the Dresden Files.

**A/N:** Another story? And a prequel to a much larger tale, no less. I'll be alternating between this and In Fire We Trust, and somewhere along the line I'll find time to finish Thunderstorm. And never worry, this entire prequel is plotted out - it's going to be six chapters long.

**Story notes: **This is a universe with Dresden-magic and both HP and Dresden characters. The history prior to this story is about the same for both universes, with appropriate adjustments made for the magic system. The idea has been banging around in my head for nigh-on a year, and I finally feel comfortable with my writing level to try it.

As always, read, review, and enjoy!

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><p>A swish and a gleam in the air end in a dull <em>thunk<em>, cutting off a brief cry. Blood sprays and spatters the walls, and the body falls to the ground, surrounded by men and women in gray cloaks. They stare at it, indifferent, and after a short moment of silence they turn away.

That is what Albus imagined when he closed his eyes, at any rate. He would never know how his father died, because he was not there. Asking one of the murdering bastards who was there would only end in bloody death, and while the grief and rage curling in his stomach longed to burst free, he had other duties now.

Aberforth. Ariana. His fingers curled on the tabletop. Dear, sweet, _broken_ Ariana.

He sighed, and stood up from the table, pushing his chair back. The goats needed to be milked, and he was loath to do it. Aberforth was better with them, anyways. "Abe!" he called up the stairs. "Get down here!"

Aberforth came down a moment later, expression sour and arms crossed. "What?"

Albus grit his teeth and fought the urge to snap back at his rudeness. Sometimes he thought that father's death didn't hurt Aberforth at all, but he knew better. Aberforth thought that father _deserved_ what he got, however, and Albus hated him for it. He sat on the resentment, though – it wouldn't do any good right now.

"Can you go milk the goats, Abe?" he asked, and tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Either he was successful or Abe didn't care, for a short nod was the only reply he received before he turned to his room.

"Albus." Aberforth had paused at the door to the pasture.

"Yes?" Albus asked, impatient. He had magic to study and work to do. Keeping the three of them afloat was no easy task, but he managed day-by-day.

"Ariana's asleep," Aberforth said. His tone was neutral, almost civil, and Albus blinked in surprise. "Somebody ought to go to the market and pick up some vegetables."

"Of course," Albus replied, still surprised, and then realized he just agreed to do it. With a parting glace to his room, he turned around and headed out of the house, checking his pockets for change. It wouldn't do to come home empty-handed, no matter how much he despised the teeming masses of flesh that inhabited the town.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus was quickly reminded of why he detested going to town. Dodging one overzealous merchant only lead to a stranger elbowing him in the gut, and the combined stink of horseshit and fish left too long in the sun was making it hard to breathe. Eyes watering, he brushed past the baker's stall to the end of the market and took a deep breath. The farmers with the best crops set up shop here, he knew from long experience.

Sorting through the barley, he ignored the vendor's offer of a sample of bread. The situation at home was becoming untenable, their savings depleting by the day. His job was difficult and brutish, hardly fit for a wizard, and the pay atrocious. The milk the goats gave them was hardly worth the cost of the feed. Albus wished for a moment that he could use his talents to earn some money, but he could think of no way to do so without inciting a riot.

Or, indeed, without the White Council staining his walls with blood.

He was startled out of his thoughts when somebody slammed into his side, sending him to the ground. A rock cut a gash in his palm, and he felt a sudden spike of rage at whoever dared attack him. His power leapt to his hands and the grass under them started to wither and die, until a hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. "Let me help you up, friend," an unfamiliar voice said.

Tucking his rage in, he lifted his head to thank the stranger and grasped the proffered hand. He was shocked into silence by the tingle of magic that washed through him at the contact, and glanced at the similar expression of surprise on the blond-haired man.

"Who are you?" Albus whispered.

The man was no older than he was, Albus noticed in the pause, and seemed reluctant to meet his eyes. Finally, he responded. "Gellert. I did not know the... community, shall we say, extended this far."

"It does," Albus responded, finally getting off the ground and brushing himself off. "Just my family, however, and Madam Bagshot."

At this, Gellert smiled. "Bathilda is my great-aunt," he says. "I am here to study with her."

"Indeed?" Albus asked, and looked through his bag. He was almost done shopping, and he could always pick up the grain later. "Let me show you the way, then."

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus knocked on the door and stepped back to wait. He was always impressed by the subtle wards woven around Bathilda's house – lean, springy, and with little curls at the edges that would set an intruder's curiosity aflame to keep them occupied. They were all the more impressive for the fact that Bathilda lived alone, and had a correspondingly weaker threshold. He could feel himself grow more curious just examining them, so he tore his gaze away and looked at his companion.

Gellert was strong in magic, as strong as Albus himself or nearly so, and he was no slouch at all when it came to power. Albus wondered what he was doing here. He doubted it was to be trained, as Gellert had claimed. Bathilda was a competent practitioner, true, but she was nowhere near strong enough to cast and thus teach the magic that was suited for somebody of Gellert's power. He knew, from when his mother had still been alive, and Bathilda came to visit regularly, that it had taken her over a year to weave her wards.

Still, he would reserve judgment until he was more familiar with Gellert.

The door opened, and Bathilda looked out. "Hello, Albus, and – oh! Gellert! Come in, come in!" Gellert walked in with a smile and Albus followed, feeling the wards part around him like the softest brush of silk.

Bathilda gave Gellert a hug before stepping back. "I see you've already met Albus. How was your journey, dear?"

"Just fine," Gellert replied, "if a bit cramped." A brief wrinkle of distaste crossed his features before smoothing out into a pleasant grin. "Still, nothing to worry about."

"Excellent," said Bathilda as she motioned them into her kitchen. "Sit down, let me get you a cup of tea."

They watched in silence for a moment while she bustled around the kitchen. Gellert broke it first. "So," he began, leaning forward with a secretive smile that Albus found himself returning. "What sort of magic do you know? As much as I wish otherwise, there's not much my aunt can teach me. Nothing useful, at any rate. I thought I was going to have to learn alone from books, but I met you..." He gave a shrug.

Albus nodded, his earlier assessment confirmed. "Well, I've learned a fair bit of thaumaturgy, and some air evocations. A few potions, too..."

=(.o0O0o.)=

"You're good, Albus," Gellert said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"I've had a little practice," Albus demurred, fingering his staff.

Without warning, Gellert swept his rod in a wide arc. "_Forare!_"

Albus brought his staff close to his body and whispered, "_Duramus_." The wave of force that Gellert summoned splashed harmlessly over Albus.

"That's an interesting spell," Gellert said with an admiring gaze. "Though I don't think it would stand up too well against fire."

"It wouldn't at that," Albus replied, sitting down on the soft grass. "But it's easier to cast than a shield."

Gellert flopped down onto the ground, hair spread in shimmering waves. Albus admired the sight for a moment listening to what Gellert said. "Would a shield even be effective against a fire spell?"

Albus frowned. "Why ever not? It would have to be attuned to fire specifically, but that's not too difficult to do."

Gellert waved his hand. "True, but the heat would still bleed though. If the fire was hot enough..." He gave Albus a significant glance.

Albus ignored the double-entente and bit his lip. "It's a shame there's no way to test it," he murmured.

"No legal way," Gellert corrected.

Albus made an indistinct noise in response, the reminder of the Council causing a frown to crease his face.

"Bathilda told me what the Council did," Gellert whispered.

Albus turned to face him, and saw that his expression was hard, as though he was angry on Albus' behalf.

"They should not have done that," Gellert continued, growing impassioned. "Those without magic are animals – _less_ than animals! They deserved to be punished for what they did!"

Albus felt his lips pull back in a silent snarl, and stood up, hefting his staff. "Again, Gellert," he said, hearing himself speak as if from a distance. "And do not hold back this time."

Gellert rose, answering with a vicious smile, and jabbed his rod forward. A whistling wind blasted forward, tearing the grass to shreds in its wake, but Albus stood calmly in its path. "_Ire ventus_."

A light breeze blew from behind him and met the razor-edged gale, rebounding it back upon Gellert with twice the force.

Slashing his rod to the side, Gellert yelled, "_Extrudo!_" The wind was shunted to the side and dissipated on the grass. Pointing his rod at the ground under Albus' feet, he whispered, "_Forare, Ferire_."

"_Terminus_," Albus intoned, slamming his staff into the ground. A wave of magic rippled from him, disrupting the spell before it could form. He sagged to one knee, exhausted from the difficult casting.

Gellert sat down on the ground again, letting his head fall back to the sky. "You're too good at this, Albus," he complimented. "I wish I'd had a better teacher."

Albus mopped up the sweat beading on his forehead with his shirt, and let the wind play across his skin for a moment before letting it drop back down. "I wish for many things," he whispered.

=(.o0O0o.)=

"Albus," Aberforth said, startling him out of his daydreams.

Albus looked around. "What?"

"Are you just going to sit around smiling all day?" Aberforth questioned, dropping a plate of food onto the table. "I thought you had better things to do."

A prickle of irritation crawled up his spine, but a surge of guilt washed over it just as quickly. It was true, he _did_ have better things to do than daydream.

"I do," he muttered, and pulled the plate of food to himself. "I've been thinking," he continued in between bites, "that we should sell the goats. They're not doing us much good."

Aberforth looked up at him from across the table, lips pinched with an expression of displeasure. No contradiction, though. Albus knew he would win whatever argument would come later.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, each picking at their food, until Aberforth spoke again. "I don't trust that Grindelwald fellow, Albus. He smells."

Albus paused with a bite of food half-way to his mouth. "Come again?"

Aberforth frowned. "Have you looked at him, Albus? I mean... actually _looked_ at him?"

Albus put his fork down and sighed. He hadn't used his Sight to look upon Gellert. But then again, why would he? "Why are you so suspicious, Abe? He's been nothing but kind so far."

"He smells," Aberforth insisted, stubbornness set on his face. "And you'd be best off staying away from him."

"Don't tell me what to do," Albus snapped. "You've no right." Tearing himself away from the precipitating argument, Albus stormed out of the kitchen. There was just no dealing with Abe when he got like this, he knew.

Stalking out of the house, he made his way through the shadowed grove behind his house to exit onto the thoroughfare that led to Bathilda's house. A moment later, he realized he had forgotten his staff, and considered going to back to get it, but decided against doing so.

Walking up to the front of the house, Albus saw Gellert sitting on the front porch, deep in thought. Gellert must have sensed his approach, however, as he opened his eyes and waved. "Come around back, Albus," he called.

Albus nodded and circled around the house to the garden, where Gellert had opened the fence for him.

"Something on your mind?" his friend asked. Gellert's tone was light, but it was clear he knew something was wrong.

Albus shrugged, feeling self-conscious. It wasn't like he could talk about Abe's suspicions to Gellert himself. "Just thinking about the Council," he said, supplying a vague half-truth.

"The Council," Gellert muttered, an expression of distaste crossing his appearance. "High and mighty fools, one and all."

"What did they ever do to you?" Albus asked, now curious as to the source of his friend's antipathy for the White Council.

"Nothing they ever did to me," Gellert responded, settling his back against a tree. "What they _would_ do to me if they knew half the things I'd done." A dry note entered his voice. "Nothing wrong with prodding around in some fool's head after he tries to gyp you, after all."

Albus shrugged and turned away, uneasy. He wasn't sure he would have done that, even had the situation been important. It was something his father had impressed onto him from an early age. _No mind magic under any circumstances._ It was immoral, dangerous, and it would get your head chopped off.

But if Gellert had felt he had a good reason... and he didn't seem to be a warlock.

Abe's words flashed through his head. _He smells_.

Albus pushed the thoughts aside.

"Anyways," Gellert said, drawing Albus' attention back to himself. "I came across something rather interesting in my great-aunt's library yesterday."

"Oh?" Albus asked, interest piqued. He didn't have many opportunities to read books outside of his families library.

"It was in one of her older history books," Gellert continued. "In the thirteenth century, there were three brothers – the Peverells. Have you ever heard of them?"

"The name sounds familiar," Albus replied, motioning for Gellert to continue.

"At any rate, there were these three brothers. Powerful wizards – apparently, they even sat on the Senior Council. Shortly before their deaths, they created a set of powerful magical artifacts, the Deathly Hallows. One was an invisibility cloak so powerful that it could hide even from the Sight. Another was a stone that reached through the veil between life and death." Albus gasped, but Gellert continued, now with a fire burning in his eyes. "And the last was a wand, the Elder Wand, the most powerful combat focus ever made."

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus made his way home in a daze. Take down the White Council? Madness, utter madness, even with a powerful focus. No wizard could stand in direct combat against all the Wardens, let alone the Senior Council as well. But the Resurrection Stone...

Hunger gnawed at his gut, but not for food. A chance to see his father again – a chance for _closure_ – yes, that was something he wanted. Something he would give much for, should the opportunity present itself. And Albus was never one to wait around for such things to fall in his lap.

Come morning, he would do what he had to do to secure his brother's and sister's comfort and safety in this town. Then he would leave with Gellert to search out the Deathly Hallows.

=(.o0O0o.)=

A crash woke Albus from his sleep, and a scream from below had him bolting out of bed, still in his nightclothes. Pausing only to grab his staff from beside the drawer, he rushed down the stairs to a tableau that forced him fully awake.

A chair, knocked over. Aberforth, lying on the ground, curled up on pain. Ariana, _out of her room_, crouched over her brother, crying. And Gellert, standing near the front door, rod in his hand, looking down upon them with a contemptuous expression on his face.

"What has happened here?" Albus asked, voice faint.

Gellert looked at him, and his expression softened. "Ah, Albus. Your fool of a brother decided that you wouldn't be going anywhere today, and I had to correct him." He let out a mocking chuckle. "Are you packed up, Albus? We do have a journey to depart on, you know."

Horror prickled up his spine and Albus let out a breath, senses swimming. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. "I think you should leave, Gellert." His brother had been right all along, and fool that he had been, Albus had not seen it.

Opening his eyes, he saw that the look Gellert was giving him was one of shock mixed with betrayal. At this, a sudden surge of rage tore through him, and the air around him began to whisper. Gellert had no _right_ to feel betrayal, he who had attacked his family!

"Leave!" Albus barked, shoving his hand forward.

Gellert was born back by the wind that had come alive, but he kept his feet. The look on his face turned ugly. "It seems you have something keeping you here, dear Albus. Perhaps you'll come with me if I take it away?"

Slashing his rod to the side, Gellert spat something unrecognizable and a bolt of gleaming silver shot at Aberforth.

Pointing his staff at the chair, Albus shot a blast of wind at it, causing it to tumble in the way of the spell. It shattered, causing bits of wood to fly out and strike both Aberforth and Ariana, who let out a sharp cry. Magic crackled in the air around her, but Albus had no attention to spare as he dodged another bolt of silver that Gellert shot at him.

Words and magic flowing through him, Albus swept his staff in a wide arc. "_Forare, ferire!_"

Air rushed from around the house to bind Gellert, but he just slashed his rod downward, grounding the magic.

"Using my own magic against me, Albus?" he sneered.

Albus' only response was to summon a gale, hoping to drive him out the door and past the threshold.

Gellert countered it, as Albus had once done to him, and began to get creative.

Albus struggled to keep up, acquiring a few nicks and scratches. With an ironic smile, he remembered how he'd thought himself the better of the two in combat. It seemed that Gellert simply hadn't wanted him dead.

Destruction flying about the room, Albus brought up a shield and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was tiring, and he had to think of something soon.

Glancing to the side, he saw Ariana lying in a heap on the ground, dress torn, blood spilled. Eyes glassy. Not breathing.

His heart stopped cold.

And then his blood ran hot, hot with fire and rage, and he wanted Gellert to _burn_.

Jabbing his staff forward, he screamed, a mindless thing. In his mind and body, his magic burned through him and left the staff as a pillar of white-hot fire.

Gellert brought up a shield, but it was not enough, nowhere near enough to stop the torrent of anger that Albus had unleashed upon him, and he was blasted through the open doorway and out onto the front lawn, signed and smoking.

Albus dropped to his knees, faint tremors shaking him. His magic burned him in its intensity, leaving him scorched inside. He looked at Ariana, and his rage felt hollow.

He fell forward, and felt nothing at all.

=(.o0O0o.)=

"And what about my brother? Where will he go?" Albus asked, his tone wooden.

The gray-cloaked Warden clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, lad. We'll find a place for your brother. And for you, if you check out. And if not... it'll be for the greater good."

Albus smiled a bitter smile.

He would find Gellert Grindelwald, in time.

_For the Greater Good._


	2. Forging the Sword

**Disclaimer:** I don't own either Harry Potter or the Dresden Files.

**A/N****:** Wrote this over the course of the last three nights. Expect the next chapter to be up in 3-4 days. I plan to keep this pace for as long as I can, so don't expect updates to my other stories until this is done. Enjoy!

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><p>The manacles clinked around his wrists as he stepped out of the hole in space, and he sagged for a moment against the wall. The trip had been long and arduous, pushing him beyond any boundaries he thought he'd had in endurance.<p>

The Warden stepped out right behind him, and gestured him forward, into the rune-lined hallway. "Nearly there, lad. I know it's been a long trip."

Albus nodded as he stepped forward. The maze seemed endless, he hadn't imagined its scale from the stories his father had carried home. Some time later, rough-hewn stone gave way to a dimly-lit antechamber.

A dozen or so wizards stood in a half-circle near the entrance. Albus could feel their magic pressing against him already, and he tensed. Some of them were no doubt Senior Council members. His life was in their hands, and he struggled not to give in to panic.

One of them came forward, a short, lean woman of middle age. Her eyes met his for a brief flicker of a second, passing no judgment, and turned to the Warden behind him. "Name?"

"Albus Dumbledore," the Warden replied. "Accused of violating the first law."

A cold weight settled on Albus, and he shook his head. It didn't even sound like they were going to allow him to present a defense.

The woman nodded and turned, motioning to one of the other wizards. He brought forth a frayed wizard's hat, peaked tip and all.

Without a word, he placed the hat on Albus's motionless head, and a note of confusion presented itself. This didn't seem like the prelude to a beheading, but he couldn't imagine why they'd be putting a hat on his head for any other reason, either.

Then it spoke, and the wind breathed through his mind.

_So young_.

Albus flinched with shock. The hat – for what else could it be – had spoken in his _mind_. His mind, the one place he knew he was safe in the world. Not even the White Council would dare violate him that way. Or so he had thought.

_Violate?_ The wind seemed amused, now. _You do not know what a _violation _is, boy. You have not seen the things I have seen wizards do. Though, perhaps..._

The wind floated through him, gentle as a summer's breeze, and Albus considered resisting before discarding the notion. His mortality had reasserted itself, and anything that kept him alive a while longer was to be embraced.

_Your sister, dead._ The wind was serious as it continued. _By your hand? Perhaps, but certainly not in malice. Defending your family. It's fairly clear, then..._

"Innocent!" the hat shouted, out loud. "Exceedingly so! If Godric knew this was the work I was being put to, he'd have your head, Merlin!"

The hat was lifted off his head, and the manacles around his wrists were removed. Meanwhile, one of wizards in the half-circle was frowning. "I still say we should get rid of it."

Another, older wizard sighed. "You know we can't do that, no matter how convenient it would be. It's just bored. Though I doubt very much Godric would have cared nearly as much as it claims." His voice turned wry. "Even if he did, he'd have a difficult time getting _my_ head."

Albus felt his curiosity peak. So this was the Merlin of the White Council.

The woman standing next to him spoke up. "Who's he going to?"

Going to? Were they going to foist him off as someone's apprentice? The only thing that kept him from speaking up was the knowledge of who he was standing before.

The Merlin turned to look at him, and Albus restrained a shiver. "With his power? I daresay Nicolas could use some excitement in his life, don't you?"

The woman blinked, but before she could say something, one of the wizards in the back of the group stepped forward. He was thin, and much younger looking than the rest of the assembly – perhaps fifty, but one never knew with wizards.

"I daresay I couldn't, actually," the wizard said. "I have quite enough to be getting along with. Why don't you give him to Rienson? Or Jordan? They've been politicking a bit too much for my tastes."

The Merlin shook his head. "We all know your opinions on Council politics, Nicolas. I'm sure I can make it worth your while."

Albus gave Nicolas, a second, considering glance. He looked awfully young to be on first-name terms with the Merlin... and to have to be bribed with favors? There was more to him than his appearance indicated, that much was clear.

Sparing a withering glance for the Merlin, Nicolas turned to Albus. "How old are you, boy?"

"Eighteen, sir," Albus replied, conscious of all the eyes on him.

"Off to a good start already, are we?" Nicolas muttered. "We'll be done in five years, Arthur. And you owe me another five, of _silence_. Come along, boy."

Albus hurried to catch up to the man.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus looked around in wonder, exhaustion shunted aside. That hadn't been his first time in the Nevernever, but he'd never traveled through it before.

"What's the matter, boy?" Nicolas asked, shucking off his robes. "Never been inside a house before?"

"Not like this," Albus answered, honesty surprised out of him.

Nicolas grunted, and motioned for him to take off his shoes. "You know the rules of lab safety, boy?"

Albus nodded. "Don't touch anything. Don't eat anything. Don't smell anything." Then, pausing a second, he added, "Don't listen to anything."

"That's right," Nicolas affirmed. "The same goes for the rest of the house. I live alone, so I tend to leave things lying around. Not to mention all the things that have gone missing over time. None of it ought to kill you, but, well... can't hurt to be too careful. I'll try to clean up some, but if you see something that looks like it oughtn't be there, come tell me."

Not waiting for a response, he opened a door to a long hallway. "Your room's down the hall, last on the left. Go get settled in. There's a few books to keep you until your collection gets delivered tomorrow. Meet me back here for dinner at eight."

Without another word, Nicolas walked through a door on his left and closed it behind him.

Dazed from the events of the day, Albus complied.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus stared at the neat handwriting in shock. He'd known the book was old, but this had to be an original copy of the _Alchemist's Guide_! He hadn't even known there were any left.

His eyes strayed to the author's name, and then it clicked.

_Nicolas Flamel_.

His mentor's name was Nicolas.

Albus swore. They'd placed him with Nicolas Flamel, famed alchemist, creator of the Philosopher's Stone? No wonder he was on first-name terms with the Merlin – he must have predated him by a good few centuries!

The lavish furnishings made much more sense, now. One could accumulate a great amount of wealth over the course of five hundred years. Flamel's disdain for politics seemed more rational as well.

Then Albus wondered what Flamel was doing, taking him on as an apprentice. He must have had better things to do – he'd even said as much to the Merlin.

The grandfather clock near his window indicated it was near time for dinner, so he put the book away with a quiet reverence and made his way out of his room.

Nicolas was already there when he stepped into the waiting room. Albus felt his attention catch on what he had thought to be insignificant details, earlier – the cut of the Alchemist's clothes, his facial features, the way he held himself. Just knowing who he was seemed to lend an air of heightened importance to his presence.

"So, finally figured it out, have you?" Nicolas asked, as they made their way to what Albus assumed was the dining room.

Albus opened his mouth, then closed it. Had it been that obvious? Nicolas seemed to find his predicament amusing, however, as he only laughed and motioned for Albus to sit down across from him the table.

"Don't worry, boy. That reaction's pretty common with the other young ones," Nicolas said, then began serving himself food from the table.

Albus frowned. He didn't want Nicolas thinking of him as _common_. His attention was displaced by the food on the table, however. He hadn't eaten all day and hunger was a demanding mistress.

The food was common country fare, though well-prepared. Albus supposed that if he lived alone, he'd learn to cook well in a timely manner as well.

Having eaten his fill, Albus cast about for a topic of conversation. What did one talk about with the oldest wizard alive, a living legend?

Nicolas took the decision out of his hands. "So, boy. Tell me a bit about yourself."

Albus blinked. "Like what, sir?"

Nicolas made a vague motion with his free hand. "Your magic, of course. Everything else I can figure out myself."

Or isn't important, Albus thought, filling in the subtext. There was little resentment at the thought. Nicolas did need to know about his magic to teach him, after all.

"Well," Albus began, "I prefer air-based evocations. I know how to construct a standard binding circle. I can brew a few standard potions, and follow recipes for most others perfectly well."

"Ever improvised in your brewing?" Nicolas interrupted.

"No, sir," Albus answered. "At least, I've never tried to make my own potion. Sometimes I've had to make do with alternate ingredients, but..."

"Yes," Nicolas said with an approving nod. "That can be unavoidable. As for new potions, it's good that you haven't tried any yet. You'd have blown yourself up, like as not." At this, Nicolas gave Albus an intense look. "If you _do_ want to try, come to me first. If I think it's workable, you'll do it under my supervision."

Albus nodded, startled. "Thank you, sir." Being allowed to experiment was a generosity that he had not expected.

Nicolas waved the thanks away. "Best way to learn is by experience. Not that I won't have you doing any reading, of course." Stabbing a potato with his fork, Nicolas looked at Albus. "You do like to read, don't you?"

"Of course, sir," Albus replied. Who didn't like to read? "If I may ask, sir..."

"You may," Nicolas responded, motioning for Albus to continue.

Albus hesitated for a short second. "You don't seem very interested in the affairs of the Council, sir."

Nicolas gave him a grim smile. "That wasn't a question." Sitting back in his chair, he sighed. "But you're right, I'm not. It's a bit of a story, boy. Are you willing to hear it?"

Albus nodded, anticipation overriding his surprise at the wizard's openness.

"Well," Nicolas said, mulling over the word like a fine wine. "I suppose the story begins when I was born. More importantly, what happened just a few decades before that. The death of Ignotus Peverell."

Albus jerked, and Nicolas gave him an appraising glance. "Heard of him, have you?"

Albus nodded, lips pressed together in silent pain.

"Good," Nicolas said. "That makes this a bit shorter. At any rate... by the time of my birth, the Elder Wand had already traveled from one master to another, to another, and to another, leaving behind a trail of dead bodies. All talented wizards, all of the Council. One was even a Senior Council member. The Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility were passed down quietly along their bloodlines, but the Wand kept everyone's attention firmly on the Hallows, and the power they represented. Immortality, they said, for one who possessed all three." Nicolas scoffed. "Fools. Even if it was true, what kind of life would it be, running forever from those who would take it from you?"

Albus commiserated with a silent sigh.

"So," Nicolas continued, taking a drink from his glass. "Death, necromancy, and immortality were on everybody's mind. Every wizard who grew up in the era was raised on stories of the Hallows – some showing their horrors, others glorifying them. I was no exception, though my parents had the sense to force me to think about it myself. By the time I was nearing my first century, the stories had quieted down some, though a gang of necromancers had rumors stirring. So I had a lot on my mind when I was in my lab one day, trying to make an experimental potion." His gaze pinned Albus. "You know that the most important part of a potion is the intent behind the ingredients. Of course, it was still an accident that I made the Philosopher's Stone, as they call it." He closed his eyes, as if remembering some far-away thing. "Once I figured out what it was, I made the mistake of telling a friend of mine on the Council. It got out pretty quickly after that, and nobody would leave me alone. The Senior Council demanded the secret, never mind that I wouldn't tell them even if I knew how I'd done it. They left it alone after a few years, but all the subtle hints and suggestions got to me over the next century."

Albus slumped back in his chair, stunned. One of the greatest minds the world of magic had ever seen had been driven away for _not_ knowing how he'd made his great creation. The irony was staggering.

"And this is why I won't have you experimenting without me, boy," Nicolas said to the silence around them. "Won't have you with that sort of weight around your neck."

=(.o0O0o.)=

"Patience!" Nicolas barked.

Albus huffed in frustration, closing his eyes again. He _was_ being patient! The bloody magic just wasn't cooperating.

He heard a sigh, and opened his eyes.

"Look, lad," Nicolas said, "you can't force this magic to work. It's not like your regular spellcasting. If you force yourself into it, you'll just be channeling magic through yourself – and end up with one hell of a headache. Honestly, I wouldn't even be trying to teach you this if I hadn't seen some of what you were capable of doing with the air already."

At the oblique glance Nicolas gave him, Albus flushed. He'd only been practicing, and the crater in the ground had been an accident. He wasn't even sure how it had happened, he'd meant to create a sculpture of leaves held in the air, but then he'd gotten distracted. His sculpture of leaves had ended up being a sculpture of dirt, which he thought was almost as good.

Until he had to shovel it back in, of course.

Forcing himself to relax, he closed his eyes again and tried to feel out the currents of magic flowing through the air around him. It was unlike any magic he'd done before. He wasn't supposed to use his own magic to have the air do his bidding, as Nicolas had said earlier. He was trying to suborn the magic already there, meld his will onto it, and grant him much finer control of the wind than he would have otherwise.

Letting his magic rise to his skin, he tried to ignore Nicolas' magic pressing against him like the heat from a hearth-fire. He tried to focus not on the wind on his skin, but what was beneath it, the current that swept along with it, the magic that sung like tinkling bells-

Feeling a surge of excitement, he commanded it to rise in a glorious tower, only to be knocked flat on his back. His magic had taken his command and lept with it, pushing him over and scattering the fragile connection he'd felt with the wind.

His groan of frustration was cut short by Nicolas' soft laughter. "Chin up, boy. I could see that you nearly had it there. And as I said before, _patience_. Get too excited and you'll blow it all to pieces."

Sitting up, Albus brushed off the leaves and bits of grass that had landed on him. "But how am I supposed to do it? It just doesn't want to listen!" He knew his voice had risen to a whine by the end, but this was getting ridiculous. The wind was far too stubborn for something that had so little substance.

He looked up, only to see Nicolas focused on some point in the distance. A second later, a gust of wind knocked him flat on his back. Again.

"What was that for?" he asked, not getting up from the ground. It was more comfortable than falling over every few minutes, anyways.

"You aren't listening, boy," Nicolas said, a hint of irritation creeping through his tone. "I've been telling you for an hour that you can't force it. That doesn't just mean that you can't use your own magic. You have to convince the wind to do what you want – seduce it to your will, not bend it or break it. The second you push, it flies apart. I know you can do it, but you need to stop focusing so much on your own power and more on the wind's. Any two-bit hedge wizard could do this, if they had the wit and the patience for it. You've got the wit." A snort escaped Nicolas, then. "The patience, I'm not so sure about."

Albus smothered the heat that crept up his cheeks, and submerged himself again. Maybe if he focused on something else, he'd be able to feel the song of the wind dancing on his skin again. The magic running through the ground, for example. A smooth current, relentless and unflagging, the power of which was staggering. He didn't dare try to tap the leyline running under the house – not without extensive preparation beforehand, at least, but it was fine for holding his attention.

It held his attention so well, in fact, that he almost didn't recognize the song skittering around him. When he noticed it, he just sat there for a minute, listening to the way it moved around him and everything else. It was complex, but not beyond his understanding. More interesting, though, were the patterns he began to find in it the longer he listened. They weren't patterns that were _doing_ anything, exactly, but more a sense that yes, this belonged here, and this didn't, but it would just move around and above, and Albus thought that perhaps the leaves littering the ground would look better like _this_-

Albus opened his eyes, and for a second, his father stood in perfect glory above him, brown and brittle and made of leaves, but the second his attention left the wind, it left him as well, and the sculpture collapsed with it.

"Well," came Nicolas' impressed voice from beside him. "_That_ was something, let me tell you. Didn't expect you to pick up for another week, at least.

Albus turned to look at him, still stunned from the magic, not comprehending the compliment. Nicolas continued on, oblivious. "Maybe we'll move a bit faster with your schedule, eh? Go straight to playing with earth – oh, will you need your patience there."

Albus blinked, and nodded. He could be patient, if it brought him results like this. He _would_ be patient.

_For knowledge._


	3. Renegade Cause

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the Dresden Files nor Harry Potter.

**A/N:** A bit late, and a bit short. With any luck I'll finish the story before finals. Either way, enjoy!

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><p>Albus walked up to the desk and cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"<p>

The wizard sitting there looked up. "May I help you?"

Albus shrugged and fingered the hem of his shirt. "Well, actually, I was wondering if I could have an audience with the Hat of Judgment?"

The wizard's eyebrows furrowed, then he made a noise of comprehension. "Oh, you mean the Sorting Hat?"

"Is that what they call it?" Albus asked, but the wizard wasn't paying attention.

"That's quite an unusual request, young man. Unprecedented, in fact, as far as I know."

Albus gave the paper-pusher a bland smile. "Is there a rule against it?"

The wizard frowned, disgruntled. "Not specifically, no. But there's no paperwork for such a request, so it'll have to go straight to Senior Council, and they don't like to be bothered by trifles like this -"

"Oh, it's no trouble, I'm sure," said a voice from behind Albus.

"Ah, Mr. Listens-to-Wind, I'm sure that this is quite unnecessary," the wizard stuttered.

Albus turned to face the Senior Council member. If he remembered what Nicolas had told him, Listens-to-Wind was a recent appointment, and the resident healer.

"You are Albus Dumbledore?" Listens-to-Wind asked, having finished his own appraisal. "Nicolas' former apprentice?"

"Yes, sir," Albus replied, sketching a short bow.

"None of that, now," Listens-to-Wind said. "Come along."

Albus fell in step behind the older man.

"So, Albus Dumbledore, tell me what has you seeking the Hat of Judgment," Listens-to-Wind said. His words were kind, but it was not a request.

Albus hesitated. He doubted he could get away with lying to a Senior Council member, and he wasn't sure he wanted to in the first place. In the end, he felt he had no choice but to answer with honesty. "I wanted to ask it about my father."

The silence that stretched from that point had Albus reconsidering his judgment.

"Nicolas tells me you are very capable," Listens-to-Wind said, startling Albus.

Albus nodded, unsure of the tangent the conversation had taken.

"I am inclined to trust his judgment," the wizard continued, "but are you sure you wish to look to the past, instead of the future?"

"I -" Albus cut off with a helpless shrug.

Listens-to-Wind nodded. "Think on it. You are a full wizard of the council now, Albus Dumbledore, and your talent should not go to waste."

They stopped in front of a door. At first glance, it was unremarkable, no different from any other door in Edinburgh.

Letting his eyes slide out of focus, Albus felt the magic of the wards press in on his senses. There was something different here, something beyond the usual bulwark of protections, but he didn't want to open his Sight for such a trivial reason.

He followed Listens-to-Wind through the now-open door and into a store-room that was no larger than a closet. On top of the left shelf sat the Hat. The elder wizard picked it up and tossed it to Albus, who squawked and grabbed it.

"Enjoy," Listens-to-Wind said with a laugh, and walked out of the store-room. "The door will seal itself behind you when you leave."

With that, Albus was left alone with the Hat. For a moment, he just looked at it, doubts flitting through his mind. But he'd already decided – decided five years ago, really, that he'd come back to talk to the Hat that had judged his father worthy of execution.

He placed the hat on his head.

A second later, the wind blew through his mind again, like it had on the day of his own judgment.

_Young Albus Dumbledore... still young. Come seeking me, have you?_

_I have,_ he responded in kind. _Why was my father executed?_

_His murder of three young boys wasn't enough?_ The hat sounded almost amused. _It doesn't matter what they did to your sister, however terrible. The Council doesn't abide murder in malice or vengeance._

_It abides murder for other reasons?_ Albus asked, growing weary of the conversation..

_In war_. The wind was quiet. _The magic doesn't twist you, if it's impersonal._

Albus grabbed the hat off his head and threw it onto the shelf. He knew enough.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus walked into the break room, intent on grabbing a sandwich. Today's session had been tiring, and he was fed up with the politics already. How his mentor had managed for two hundred years was a mystery to him.

A voice stopped him at the sandwich tray. "Dumbledore."

He turned around, only to find the last person he wanted to talk to. "Warden Morgan."

"Council politics getting the best of you, eh?" Morgan asked, filling himself a cup of coffee. "All those bloodthirsty savages a bit difficult to convince?"

Albus ignored the mocking lilt to his gruff tone. "I'm sure we'll be able to come to some sort of agreement." Turning around, he busied himself with the sandwich selection.

"Will you?" Morgan's voice asked from behind him. "Didn't hear much agreement back there. Really, Dumbledore, do you listen to yourself sometimes? Rehabilitation?"

"Better than beheading every accident that drops itself onto our lap," he muttered. It had been the same argument for the last ten years. On one side, Albus Dumbledore, the Great Reformer. On the other side, every other wizard in the White Council. He wasn't having much success.

"Hear about that gang of necromancers we took down in Africa?" Morgan asked.

"I have," Albus responded, taking a bite of his sandwich. The bread here was excellent; the meat, not so much.

Morgan snorted. "Think we should let them off with a slap on the wrist, too?"

Albus brushed a stray crumb off himself. "I'm sure we shouldn't." He wasn't about to indulge Morgan in an argument.

"Damn right," Morgan growled, and stomped out of the room.

Albus sighed. Perhaps he'd try a different strategy at the next meeting.

=(.o0O0o.)=

"...they ran into a pack of zombies, just wandering around the countryside. What kind of necromancer just leaves his toys out?" The grey-haired Warden grunted. "Maybe it was just a gang of malnourished locals?"

Albus sighed and walked by the conversation, taking his seat. It could have been a false alarm, he supposed. The last dozen could have been too, but it seemed unlikely. Somebody was stirring up trouble.

A few minutes later, most of the stragglers had arrived. The Merlin chose to skip his usual grandiose introduction, jumping straight to the heart of today's discussion. "We have noticed an increase in necromantic activity in Europe, focused in Germany and Russia in particular. This is accompanied by an increase in tensions between nations around Germany..."

And that just about covered it, Albus discovered. It wasn't a coincidence, according to the Senior Council.

Nobody said it aloud, but Albus knew he wasn't the only one whose thoughts strayed to Kemmler, the long-dead necromancer.

In his ever-increasing experience with necromancers, he found that "dead" tended to be a subjective turn-of-phrase.

As the meeting wrapped up, Albus made to leave, but was intercepted at the door. "Captain Luccio. What can I do for you?"

"I have a task for you, Albus. If you're free, of course," the Captain of the Wardens replied.

"I have no pressing engagements," Albus allowed. He had to admit, he was curious what she could need from him.

"We've found a young child with some considerable talent in an orphanage in England. We'd like you to pick him up," Luccio said.

Albus raised an eyebrow. "Isn't there a division of the Wardens for that sort of thing?" He wasn't busy, true, but that didn't mean he would stoop to being an errand-boy.

At this, Luccio looked uncomfortable. "There is, actually. The Senior Council requested you specifically for this pick-up."

"Oh?" Albus allowed his gaze to travel to the seven wizards talking in furious whispers near the center of the room. He couldn't remember the last time he'd talked to one of them, let alone done something to irritate them outside of his usual rabble-rousing during meetings. And this seemed rather bizarre for a punishment, anyways, so he struck that out as a possibility.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Albus nodded. "Very well."

=(.o0O0o.)=

The air was thick with exhaust as Albus walked down the street of central London. He wrinkled his nose at the grime staining the sidewalk and buildings. There was a reason he didn't venture into the city very often.

A minute later, he arrived at his destination. A dilapidated townhouse stood before him, grim architecture highlighted by the gloom of the late-afternoon. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought that this was just another family home, down on their luck.

The screams and wails of children gave it away for what it was, though, and Albus stepped up to the doorway and knocked.

A moment later, a harried-looking girl opened the door. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I have an appointment with the matron of this orphanage," Albus replied. He didn't, but that was a small matter.

"Right," the girl replied, wiping at a smudge on her cheek. "Just a minute."

She closed the door, and Albus heard quick footsteps on the other side of the door. A few minutes later, the door opened again to reveal a significantly more harried-looking woman. "May I help you? I'm quite sure I don't have any appointments today."

"I may have neglected to call," Albus said, affecting unconcern. "Nevertheless, I have urgent business here today."

"Do you, now?" the matron questioned, eyes set in suspicion.

"I do," Albus replied, giving her his most genial smile. Ignoring her protest, he brushed past her into the hallway, avoiding the detritus underfoot. "I understand that you have a young child in your care, a Mr. Tom Riddle."

Her attempts at barring him entry having failed, the matron glared at Albus. "So I do. What business do you have with him?"

Glancing around, as if to check for any listening ears, Albus shifted closer to the matron. "Mr. Riddle is a very gifted child. Our country could use somebody of his... talents."

Eyes widening, the matron performed her own check of the corridor. Albus hid a smile.

"You're not from the church, are you?" she hissed under her breath.

"Not at all, Madam," Albus replied, tone grave. The notion was amusing, however.

"Our country, you say?" she asked, suspicion softened with curiosity. "And if you take him off my hands, I won't hear from you again?"

"I daresay you won't," Albus said. As she held her own counsel, Albus kept quiet. She had already arrived at her decision, he knew. She just needed to justify it to herself.

Finally, she looked up. With nary a word, she motioned for Albus to follow her. They traversed the house, navigating amongst the screaming hordes of children and their desperate caretakers. As they stepped into a corridor near the back of the house, the matron knocked on the first door. "Tom, somebody to see you!"

A vague reply could be heard from inside. Giving Albus a significant glance, the matron walked away.

Albus sighed and shook his head. Humans were so easily led about by their fears and insecurities. Perhaps it was for the best, though.

Opening the door, he stepped into Tom Riddle's room.


	4. On the Way to Greatness

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**A/N: **Oops. Hi there. No promises on chapter 5. Once I start writing it'll probably be done in under a week, but who knows. Enjoy.

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><p>"On three!" Morgan roared over the din of the battlefield. "One, two, <em>three-<em>"

"_Tempestas_!" Albus yelled as the shields dropped, sending a miniature hurricane through the ranks. Rotted limbs and desiccated body parts flew as the storm tore through the zombies, sending the horde flying back and away from the legion of exhausted Wardens.

The necromancer howled in frustration, but continued his incessant drumming.

"Give up, Grevane!" Luccio called across the charred, pitted ground. "Cooperate with us against your master and we may reach an agreement!"

Ignoring her, Grevane redoubled on his shield. His zombies, what remained of them, began to pick themselves off the ground.

Morgan shoved his way to Albus' side. "We need to end, this, _now_. Our shields aren't going to survive another rush."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Albus asked, strain coloring his voice.

"Pull out that bag of tricks you've got, Dumbledore," Morgan hissed. "Now's not the time for _intellectual secrecy_."

Albus grunted, and pulled out his Warden's sword. The blade's edge flickered with a blue glow as he drew his arm back.

Ramming his mind into a state of serenity, the world dropped away. The roar of the battlefield became a gentle murmur, the smell of death turned into an abstraction.

The wind came to him.

Albus snapped his arm forward, letting the sword fly free. It tumbled on the current, ringing with the sound of justice. The wind bore it past the zombies, and the magic of the blade tore through the necromancer's shields. With a dull thunk, it embedded itself into Grevan's shoulder.

As his shields faltered, the Wardens sent forth their magic, but the zombies took the brunt of the attack. In the ensuing confusion, Gevane tore a hole into the Nevernever.

Luccio spat something in Italian that made Albus blush. "Alright, let's clean up the bodies."

Grevane's retreat had cut off the heartbeat that animated the zombies, reverting them to inanimate corpses that now littered the ground.

As the rest of the Wardens began torching the bodies, Albus stood by in silence. Kemmler's reappearance had surprised only the most dim-witted fools, and the Council had been preparing behind-the-scenes for years.

They hadn't counted on his apprentices. They were numerous, powerful, and well-trained – surprisingly so, for the limited time they'd have had to learn.

The Wardens had run into six so far, and managed to dispatch two, corpses burnt to ashes. Nothing was certain with necromancers, but that was the best one could do on short notice. They'd be taking more precautions with Kemmler, no doubt, when they ran him down.

If they ran him down. The Wardens had lost more than one member running headlong into Kemmler's traps and fighting his lieutenants, and that number would only increase. Meanwhile, Kemmler was rampaging around Europe, trying to perform a Rite of Ascension.

If they didn't stop him in time, well. Albus smiled a grim smile. They'd go down fighting.

And then Captain Luccio stepped up to Albus Dumbledore, reluctant Warden-conscript, and brought up the last thing he wanted to think about. "You can't run from him forever, Albus."

Albus stilled, and the wind fluttered about him in agitation. The worst part was that she was _right_, he was avoiding confronting Grindelwald. The mere mention of his name made Albus uncomfortable. But how was he supposed to have known, all those years ago when he had sworn to hunt Gellert down, that his former friend would succeed in his ambition in procuring the Elder Wand?

For Gellert had been one of the six apprentices the Wardens had run into, and the only one they had retreated from. Five good Wardens had died that day, slaughtered in one blast. The remaining three had been hard-pressed to hold him off before they secured their escape.

And now the Council wanted Albus to hunt him down, out of some misguided notion that their childhood familiarity might give him a better chance. Never mind that he was exactly the wrong person to hunt him down, his desire for vengeance ought to have disqualified him from the task. The Senior Council was too busy hunting down Kemmler himself, and the rest of the Wardens too cowardly to try taking Gellert on again.

Perhaps he himself was too much of a coward. And he knew, even if the Council did not, that he sought no vengeance. His past was long buried, and his desire to see Gellert defeated was no greater than to see any of Kemmler's other apprentices put down.

Turning to Luccio, Albus nodded. "I'll find him. Be prepared to deal with him on your own after that, though." They shared a grim smile.

Well, he thought with a touch of bitter amusement, perhaps he _did_ have a reason to hunt down Gellert. After all, the Wardens could use somebody who owned the Elder Wand.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Surrounded by the whispers of the shadowed evening, Albus walked up the cobbled path. The house towered above him, as stately and majestic as it had been during his apprenticeship.

As he made his way past the gate, Albus glanced around. The front gardens remained the same, much like the house. This was a place lost in time, and Albus felt a faint discomfort at disturbing it. But needs must, he thought with a sigh, and Albus walked up to the front door and knocked.

A minute later, Nicolas Flamel opened the door and greeted Albus with a smile. "It's been a while, Albus. Come to pay an old man a visit?" His tone belied his words, however. He knew this was no social call.

Albus tipped his head in a short bow. "I have, sir. And a request to make of you, if you shall grant it."

"Over tea, perhaps," Nicolas replied, and stepped out of the doorway.

Albus stepped through the doorway, and felt the familiar shift as the wards recognized him. His mentor had kept him keyed in, after all these years? A good sign, perhaps.

Albus followed Nicolas through the familiar hallways into the kitchen. A pot of water was already boiling, and Albus hid a smile. His arrival had not been unexpected, then. Which, upon further reflection, could have meant anything, but such thinking was pointless.

The two men seated themselves on opposite sides of the table, looking at each other over their steaming cups of tea. Albus recognized the familiar power play – the first to speak would be the first to lose. He wasn't much interested in playing head games, however, and decided to discard with the game. "As I said, sir, I have a request to make of you."

"So you said," Nicolas agreed, face revealing the slightest touch of amusement.

"There is an item in your collection that I wish to borrow for a ritual," Albus continued, ignoring the way Nicolas' expression shuttered, "the Mirror of Erised."

Judging by the silence that had overtaken his former mentor, the target of his request had been unexpected. This time, though, Albus felt no desire to break the silence. Rushing Nicolas was never a good way to get him to agree to anything.

"So," Nicolas said, having gathered his thoughts. "You seek Gellert Grindelwald."

Albus blinked, too surprised to offer any sort of meaningful response. How could Nicolas _possibly_ have known...? He hadn't been in communication with the Council for some time now, of that much Albus was certain.

Finally, Albus nodded. How Nicolas had deduced the information was something to be considered later.

"It is not out of any personal desire of mine," Albus offered. "The Council rather insisted."

Sighing, Nicolas looked into his cup. "I know, Albus. If I hadn't thought that you had gotten over your obsession with revenge, I'd never have passed you as my apprentice. Those fools on the Council, though..." His face darkened with some unseen memory. "Let's just say I'm not surprised that they're sending you out to do their dirty work. It is odd, though, you'd think they'd have chosen someone else. On the other hand, perhaps not."

Having come to some internal agreement, Nicolas pinned Albus with his gaze. "From what you told me, Grindelwald was never a wizard to be taken lightly. And now he has the Elder Wand. He could probably take on a Senior Council member and leave standing."

Albus nodded his agreement, though confused. Really, he was the last person who would underestimate his opponent.

"What you may not know, perhaps, is that each owner of the Elder Wand is usually taken down by ambush or trickery." Nicolas gave him a sardonic smile. "In fact, I don't know of a single time that it was passed on through direct battle."

"Truly?" Albus asked, surprised. He had not thought the Elder Wand to be so powerful that its seekers did not dare confront each respective owner in battle, for surely some of its owners had to be wizards of middling power themselves.

It was not impossible to ambush a wizard, after all. Poison or a knife to the heart would kill one just fine, leaving little opportunity for a death curse in either case. Which left open the possibility – no, likelihood, that a wizard of average power had once owned the Elder Wand.

And if a wizard of average power became such a formidable opponent that stronger wizards did not wish to engage him in open combat... Albus gripped his teacup with a shaking hand.

"So you see my dilemma, Albus," Nicolas said with a gentle tone, breaking the reverie. "How can I in good conscience assist you on this mission?"

It took Albus a moment to form the thought, and it brought a melancholy smile to his face. "Will you do it, sir?" he asked, looking up. "For somebody must. The Senior Council has a desperate hope that it will be me, for they fear the loss of one of their own. Kemmler is but a vengeful ghost to be banished, but Gellert tears at our numbers with savage ferocity; they cannot afford to let him live, yet they cannot afford to face him themselves. And so it falls to me to do the deed." A bitter laugh escaped him. "And even in my failure would their goal be achieved, for my death curse would leave little of him to be found."

At this grim pronouncement, Nicolas put his cup down and closed his eyes. "I do not interfere in Council matters if I can help it, Albus. Nor am I a Warden." Nicolas opened his eyes and regarded Albus with a keen expression. "And yet, if you had your way, you wouldn't be one either. So perhaps it falls upon the unwilling to settle this fight. Come with me, Albus."

At this, Nicolas stood up from the table. Albus mirrored him with a vague feeling of shock. He hadn't truly expected to receive any assistance here.

Nicolas led him through the familiar hallways of the house until they reached an ancient wooden door with an iron handle. The wards around the door were clustered in a thick knot, making the air pulse around it. Albus had spent many leisure hours during his apprenticeship wondering what was behind it. The Philospher's Stone had been his first and best guess, but it seemed that the room contained other mysteries.

His former mentor pulled the door open with nary a word or a gesture and motioned him inside. The darkness was stifling, but the heavy feel of unfamiliar magic was nothing short of awe-inspiring. From behind him, Nicolas snapped his fingers and several wall-mounted torches bloomed into light.

Albus looked around in surprise. The room was tiny, with four gray stone walls enclosing a space smaller than his water closet. At the far end stood an ornate mirror, a flowery, golden inscription gracing its head. Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _I show not your face but your heart's desire_, Albus translated. With a fierce application of will he managed to keep his eyes away from the mirror. Such a tool could be useful, but also dangerous. The information that it showed him would be coming from his own head.

Unless he used it as the focus for a tracking spell.

Glancing down, Albus noticed the dull gray pentacle enveloped by a lighter-colored circle, all inscribed in the stone floor. A ritual room as well as a safe place for storage. Interesting.

From behind him, Nicolas cleared his throat. "Do you have everything you need, Albus?"

The auburn-haired wizard nodded. "I don't imagine it will take much," he replied.

A soft sigh. "No, it won't. Come find me when you're done."

The door closed with a click, and Albus stood still for a moment, letting the torchlight play over him. He had considered his options before coming here, and none of them were very good. With the mirror, finding Gellert would be easy, wards or no wards. Keeping track of him after the spell was cast would be tricky, but possible. Keeping track of the necromancer in a way that would allow Albus to ambush him, however...

There was only one option. A distasteful one, to be sure. But, in the end, necessary.

Albus closed his eyes for a few brief seconds, then opened them. Ariana's eyes stared back at him from the mirror, guileless and bright.

He strode forward, the turbulence in his mind falling quiet. Grasping the mirror by the sides with firm hands, Albus placed it with determined precision into the center of the pentagram.

With a gentle application of will, he closed the circle. There would be no tools or fancy visualizations. Just his mind and magic, and a cold desire to end the conflict that had started so many years ago.

Images of Gellert flooded his mind, the good times and the bad. What he must look like now, having steeped himself in the blackest of all magics. What he would look like after Albus was done with him.

His right hand rose, almost of its own volition. Magic gathered in him; the wind, his own. The earth, the leyline. The seductive whisper in his ear, the mirror. His finger came to rest on the top end of the mirror's frame, a sharp point.

Albus pushed, ignoring the dull flare of pain from the puncture, and released the magic he had been holding within. "_Quaerel_."

He stepped backwards, breaking the circle, and the spell crashed into him. Letting out a short gasp of pain, Albus opened his eyes and watched as the blood coating the sharp tip of the mirror disappeared.

The magic pulled so hard he could almost imagine his heart bursting out of his chest. He fought it down with a grunt, ignoring the images streaming through his head. He would use them once he reached his target.

Albus left the mirror where it lay and made his way to the foyer, the spell prickling under his skin, racing through his veins. Nicolas stood next to the doorway, and when he caught sight of Albus, his eyebrows went up. "Really?"

Albus shrugged, a sardonic smile playing about his lips. "Gellert is a formidable opponent, to say nothing of the Elder Wand. I simply wished to grant myself a commensurate advantage."

"You don't say," the elder wizard drawled, then gave him a sharp look. "What happens if he dies?"

"I suppose it will hurt rather badly," the younger replied with an indifferent shrug. "But it will still hurt less than failing would, I imagine."

Nicolas frowned, then nodded. "Tread lightly, Albus. There are few good roads from here."

Albus dipped his head in acknowledgment, and left.

=(.o0O0o.)=

The spirit world was a dangerous place, yet Albus strolled down a remote path in the Nevernever unconcerned by any possible threat. The spell guiding him was intelligent; not self-aware, perhaps, but smart enough to guide him by the shortest and safest route to his destination.

Albus felt spell's pull increasing. Dead leaves and twigs crunched under his boots, the desiccated corpses of the trees from which they came cloistering him from any sunlight in the barren wasteland. Given the state of his surroundings, he suspected that he was walking on the other side of a graveyard. Or any other place with a long history of death, really.

A perfect place for a necromancer to set up base.

At least Gellert was alone, according to the steady stream of information from the spell. One wizard, whose every movement and spell he would be able to anticipate with magically-enhanced accuracy, might be manageable, even counting the power of the Elder Wand. Any accomplices were not the target of his spell, and thus would be free to stir up trouble.

The magic coursing through him twitched, and Albus pulled up short. Raising his staff, he began constructing a shield to surround him. Such a construct would be weak and short-lived, but it was his best option for fending off an ambush on the other side. Not that he thought an ambush was likely, but why take chances?

Shield raised, Albus opened a hole back to reality with a smooth gesture. As he stepped through, he was greeted by a sight that reminded him forcibly of the path he had just walked. There were no dead trees littering the landscape, but the ground was just as lifeless and the air just as silent. Looking around, he saw nothing of note, and wondered if the spell had led him astray.

Then he chided himself for being foolish and closed his eyes, focusing on the spell once more. His destination immediately became clear. Whirling around, he strode off at a brisk clip. Not even a minute had passed before the heavy tang of necromantic magic began to press itself onto him.

It seemed that Gellert was either in the middle of a large working, or had just completed one. The first would be to his advantage. The second would very much not be.

Stopping for a second to cast a veil covering sight and sound, Albus considered his approach. The spell was supposed to grant him a minor form of Intellectus related to his target. The theory was sound, and so far it had performed to his expectations. But one could never be sure with untested waters, and this was about as untested a spell as he'd ever performed. To attack with caution, or to attack with confidence? Albus supposed he would let the circumstances dictate his strategy.

A man's form was visible on the horizon, now. He appeared to be standing still with his back toward Albus. The leaden sensation of black magic was growing heavier. Albus began to siphon power from the ground, taking care to avoid the darkest of it. He had no desire to touch such magic, nor to alert his opponent of his arrival.

He was within shouting distance now. With a near-silent breath, Albus released the binding spell he had been constructing. The rush of magic crossed the distance between them in almost no time at all, but Gellert turned around at the last second and slashed a wand through the air. The spell shattered into streamers of azure light.

The blond-haired wizard's eyes settled on Albus' general area. "Come alone, have you, my old friend?" His mouth twisted in a sneer. "You must be very confident in your abilities."

Albus said nothing. He knew he would not be able to convince Gellert to turn himself in, and had no particular desire to give away his position any further. Instead, he sent out a wave of concussive force, paying close attention to the information the spell was providing him.

Inside his head, Gellert raised clear light-blue barrier that neatly withstood his attack. A split-second later, the dust cleared, and Albus saw Gellert hiding behind the same barrier.

The warden smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. What he was about to do wasn't very nice either.

Sidestepping a bolt of silver light (now wasn't that familiar?), Albus pointed his staff at the ground and intoned an incantation. Sharp chips of stone, as large as his head, flew at his opponent. Gellert began his response, but Albus was ready for it. The Elder Wand made direct confrontation difficult, even with minor precognition. So he would simply turn its own power against its wielder.

The stones were flying back toward him, but he was already five steps to the left. Instead of hitting him, they were caught in a net of his magic. Albus swung his staff around his body, using his magic as a slingshot to send the avalanche back at Gellert.

The necromancer had not been expecting such a tactic, but he still managed to block the fusillade. He didn't manage to block the hammer-blow of compressed air that Albus had sent after it.

Gellert had an almost comical look of surprise on his face as he tumbled to the ground, the Wand separated from him.

Eyes hard, jaw set, Albus jabbed his staff at the crumpled form of his opponent. A giant spike of stone erupted from the ground, penetrating Gellert's chest in a shower of gore.

At the same time, his head erupted in agony. He clutched his staff for support, trying to cancel the spell. After a brief moment, he succeeded, but the headache remained.

Having regained his wits, Albus untied a small pouch that had been hanging around his neck. Approaching the corpse, he upended the pouch over the body without ceremony. His enemy salted, Albus took a few steps back. "_Inflammare_."

The body burned. Glancing around, Albus spotted the Wand lying on the ground just a few meters off. It almost seemed to be calling to him. He hesitated. What justifications had the previous owners of the wand given themselves before taking it? Did it even matter? There were few wizards he could think of that he would trust with this sort of power. His own record was far from spotless. Nonetheless, he would ask those few if they wanted it. Mind made up, he stooped down to pick up the slim piece of wood. As his fingers grasped it, a rush went through him.

Albus felt it, then, a near-physical thing, like a cold weight across his shoulders; the grim burden of power.


End file.
